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The room went silent for a split second, like when your favourite TV show drops a cliff hanger and NEPA (as we used to call them) takes light. Kaycee, the ever-serious diva known to us as a pastor, just dropped a bombshell that none of us expected.
“Kaycee… you? Crushing on Jaz’s boyfriend? Girl, what kind of sermon is this?” Zara exclaimed, eyes wide, fanning herself with her gold clutch like she had just witnessed a spiritual scandal.
I nearly choked on my orange slush punch. “You’re kidding, right? You that gave us ‘The Dangers of Carnal Desire’ last month in that WhatsApp voice note series?” I raised an eyebrow, fighting the grin creeping across my face like a Lagos traffic jam.
Kaycee, calm as a cucumber in a freezer, adjusted her dolman sleeve like she was about to preach her truth. She smiled that sly, “My Spirit told me to mind my business but I didn’t” smile. “Well,” she said, fluttering her lashes, “maybe even pastors can fall for a good-looking man in a pink shirt and bow tie. He looked like a wedding waiting to happen!”
Bola snorted so hard she nearly spilled her punch. “Okay, ‘Pastor Kaycee,’ if you start quoting Songs of Solomon at him, I’m blocking you on all platforms, including heavens gate”
Jasmine blinked, clearly trying to recall if she’d ever mentioned Christopher was that cute. She looked like she was plotting how to un-crush Kaycee before things got Pentecostal.
The tension dissolved into laughter—the kind that makes your belly hurt and your makeup run. But just then, the microphone crackled to life.
“Ladies,” the host boomed, “who’s ready to slay at karaoke tonight?”
That was our cue.
Zara, never one to miss a spotlight even if NEPA took light, she’d use torchlight, leapt up like her rent just got paid. “I’m going first,” she announced, snatching the mic. “And I’m dedicating this song to the one who thought she could dodge girls’ night punishment—yes, you know who you are!” She eyed the empty chair where Tolu should’ve been. Her punishment? Probably another church crusade in full iro and buba.
We roared with laughter as Zara launched into a pitchy but passionate rendition of “Halo”—complete with dramatic gestures, voice cracks, and dance steps stolen from a Nollywood musical.
When it was my turn, I chose “If I Were a Boy,” channelling Beyoncé with all the side-eye I had left in me. I threw winks like confetti. The room exploded in cheers. Zara leaned in, whispering with a smirk, “Still think you’re too fine and intelligent to be anyone’s side chick? Sis, you’re giving certified main Chick with assistant pastor vibes.”
We all cackled.
Later, Jasmine pulled me aside with a sly look. “So… about that Adonis,” she purred. “You think I should ditch Christopher, huh?”
I took a slow sip of my punch. “My sister, you deserve a man who shows up in a pink shirt and bow tie with a boutonniere, not one who asks ‘Where’s my boxers?’ every weekend.”
Jasmine laughed, “True! Christopher still uses cologne from 2016.”
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Meanwhile, Bola’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and gave us the type of grin you give when your alert enters and your bank app doesn’t crash.
“Sugar daddy just invited me to his weekend villa party. He said, and I quote, ‘Imagine our baby with your brains and my money.’”
We all screamed. Like actual screams that made the waiter drop someone’s suya wings.
“Bola! That’s not a proposal, that’s a LinkedIn pitch!” I shouted, tears rolling down my face from laughter.
Zara was on the floor by now. “Wait! Did he say ‘our baby’? Does he think children are like ordering shawarma?!”
Bola flipped her hair. “I told him I’d think about it. But first, I need a three-day spiritual retreat with Kaycee’s church—for ‘moral direction.’”
Kaycee clutched her imaginary Bible. “Abeg, don’t drag Church into baby mama negotiations!”
“Too late,” I quipped. “Your church just became a pre-natal counselling centre!”
As the orange slush punch did its job, we sang, we danced, and yes, we gossiped. We dragged men like expired data plans. Kaycee later shocked us with a soulful gospel karaoke mashup of Tasha Cobbs meets Asa, leaving even Zara clapping like she just caught her spirit in a cocktail bar.
At one point, Zara disappeared for ten minutes. We panicked briefly until she returned, with fries, fried snails, and meat pies she had bribed the kitchen staff to smuggle out.
“Don’t judge me,” she said, already chewing. “Praise and worship makes me hungry!”
By the time we left, heels in hand and voices hoarse from karaoke, we were still laughing. Zara, her mouth full of snail, said, “Alright, I admit it, Kaycee, your no-boys policy is annoying, but your drinks and Jesus jams? 10/10.”
I looked around at my girls, their wild eyes, big dreams, broken hearts, full bellies, and louder laughs…. and smiled.
Life might be messy. Love might be complicated. But sisterhood? That one is gold. Shiny, chaotic, dramatic gold.
And as for Kaycee? Let’s just say if she ever writes a sermon titled “Temptation in a Bow Tie,” we’ll know who inspired it.
